


rumour has it

by weekends



Category: City of Brass - S.A. Chakraborty
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 12:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15995240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekends/pseuds/weekends
Summary: They are parts of a perpetually broken vase, shattered and pieced together, over and over. Muntadhir needs Jamshid to understand this.





	rumour has it

Jamshid's heart breaks again. Muntadhir can see it through a haze of wine and smoke and sex. He can see it from across the room in the arms of an Agnivanshi dancer whose name he can't remember. His heart breaks a little, too, but Jamshid is walking towards him. His every movement is schooled into strict captaincy, so Muntadhir forgets his heart and remembers the girl's name.

 

"Esha," she pulls away from his neck and hazily blinks at him, "Fetch us some more wine. And bring a few more friends." It's sly, but Jamshid is now standing coolly before him and Muntadhir wants to chip away at the ice, "We might just have some interesting company tonight."

 

She disentangles herself from Muntadhir's lap, not without a lingering hand at his thigh. Jamshid's eyes look away, and he ignores the dancer as she gathers empty wine goblets and leaves. His chin is a fraction too proud, though, and his shoulders are a little too tense, even as captain of the Royal Guard.

 

Muntadhir breaks the silence. "Have you come here to judge me or join me?"

 

"Neither, Emir," at least he's looking at Muntadhir now. Muntadhir sees his hand go to his empty khandjar holder, his thumb tracing the leather. He notices the trait every time Jamshid pulls on a veneer of brittle control, "I am here to remind you of the meeting with the Tukharistani merchant. My— the minister would like you to be well prepared."

 

Muntadhir blames the wine when his heart sinks a little. "You're not my secretary, nor are you my keeper." He blames the wine when he imagines a glimpse of hurt that has Jamshid's thumb stilling at the khandjar holder, "As Emir, I decide when to meet merchants, and tonight, I have decided to meet a few lovely dancing girls instead." He blames the wine when he has to remind himself that he doesn't care, _he doesn't care_.

 

"I understand, Emir," says Jamshid, "but the trade is very important and the merchant notoriously tricky. You have to be well-prepared."

 

"Since when did you care for merchant deals, _captain_?" A few curious glances remind Muntadhir to lower his voice. "You certainly didn't care last week when you asked me to stay."

 

It's a beautiful thing to see Jamshid's control crack. The veneer of captain slips a little, and irritation crosses his face.

 

"That was last week," he snaps, "Right now, I am captain of the Royal Guard relaying a message so the Emir can be safely escorted to attend to his _duties_." He finally settles his glare on Muntadhir. Jamshid's eyes always flicker about when he's angry, and only when they rest somewhere does Jamshid mean to deliver something potent, "If the Emir would rather tend to trivial conquests over anything reasonably skilled or requiring more than half a brain, then my duty for his royal security is not required."

 

He turns to leave and it's the wine that spikes panic through Muntadhir. "Jamshid, wait." He's halfway out of his seat before he realises the girl is returning and they've attracted a few more ears and eyes. It would not do to have what appears to be a lovers' spat. He sighs. "I'll go."

 

Jamshid still has his back to him, so he can't see Muntadhir's face when he says, "And you don't require the usual wine and dancers to hold your hand while learning the particulars of this trade?"

 

"No, captain," Muntadhir clamps down the hurt in his own voice, "I'm sure whoever I'm dealing with will be on their knees by the end of the ordeal. In a matter of speaking, of course."

 

He gets nothing more than the stiff line of Jamshid's shoulders.

 

"Of course," Jamshid repeats.

 

They leave the tavern, the silence between them occasionally interrupted with farewells from Muntadhir to his respective appreciators. The night air is cold but Jamshid's countenance is colder. Even now, in no one else's company but their own in the palanquin, he refuses to look at Muntadhir. Instead, he glares out the window — curtained with heavy cloth — like he'd rather be out in the starry sky beyond than in a small box with Muntadhir.

 

"This merchant deal," says Muntadhir, "How long do I have to understand it?"

 

"It will take place after afternoon prayer in the office for merchants." He doesn't even look at Muntadhir to reply.

 

 _Tomorrow_? "I've successfully negotiated half-drunk with no sleep. This one doesn't seem any more important than the usual." Muntadhir scoffs, "And to think I passed on a whole posse of flexibility unknown to subject myself to tutoring."

 

Jamshid's eyes flash but still they remain set away from Muntadhir, "It would be nice," he says coolly, "for the Emir to learn something on his own. And for him pay enough care to actually do something himself, rather than assuming everything will turn out the way he'd like it in the end."

 

"So you retrieved me from the tavern to _learn_ and _care_?" He leans forward. The palanquin is small enough his fingers could brush Jamshid's knee if he isn't careful. "You're sure that's what you interrupted my night for? Because I think you were rather jealous."

 

"There is no reason for me to be jealous. You said so yourself last week, Emir."

 

He hates Jamshid like this, dutiful and distant. He longs for the good-humoured jibes traded between them, or the challenge in his eyes as Jamshid holds his wrists down in bed. Or walking through the garden alone with him, holding his hand.

 

He finally speaks, "I meant it last week. I still mean it. We can still be together." Remembering the warmth of their hands intertwined, Muntadhir covers Jamshid's hand, primly on his knee in the posture of the Royal Guard, with his own hand. His blood sings, even as Jamshid's expression does not change. "But as you say, I have my duty as Emir to uphold."

 

It's cold again when Jamshid draws his hand away and angles his entire body to the palanquin door. Every line in his posture stubborn and withdrawn and— and hurt. _He's hurt_ , Muntadhir thinks, _I've hurt him_.

 

That's all he can do.

 

"My duty means I keep up appearances. I dabble around, sleep around, and generally be charming to all," he continues, "We can be together, but you must understand I have to keep up a reputation. Be my father's son. Be the _Emir_. So I mean what I said then and I mean it now. You don't have any reason to be jealous because we know this will go nowhere."

 

Finally, finally, Jamshid's eyes meet his. Muntadhir does all he can not to melt or flinch or cry.

 

"Of course, Emir," Is it possible to hear a heart break? Muntadhir's not sure if he hears it in the resigned devastation in Jamshid's voice with those three words. Or possibly he hears the blame in its contained vitriol when he says, "I understand that you must do what you must. I will leave you to your quarters, I am not essential in your negotiations." Or maybe it's that Jamshid is seeing him for who he is, who he is doomed to be. "I do not mean to impose in any capacity more than your captain."

 

It's the vicious hurt, he decides. He hears it when Jamshid raps on the palanquin wall and barks out an order to hurry up. He sees it in the way the cool mask fuses into his skeleton, and he feels it most keenly in his own chest. The possibility of never holding Jamshid's hand again is already pushing him toward recklessness.

 

They don't speak another word for the rest of the trip. Muntadhir's eyes quietly (desperately) attempt to weasel out any semblance of Jamshid — _his_ Jamshid. But he knows Jamshid can never be his. He knows he was telling the truth, reminding them both of the tragedy of what they can't be. The door opens and servants wait to escort him back to his quarters. He feels like he still needs more time to search Jamshid, but even an eternity will never be enough to find what he is looking for. It's gone. It never existed. They could never be allowed to.

 

Muntadhir steps out of the palanquin, away from Jamshid. He will hold himself together. He is Emir. He will do what he must. Might as well enjoy what he can, wherever he can, before he's marched off to his demise — and to hell with anyone who tells him otherwise.

 

"Goodnight, captain."

 

"Sleep well, Emir."

 

He reaches his quarters numb. He goes through the motions of readying for sleep, dismisses his servants and collapses into bed. Loneliness echoes back and Muntadhir drifts off, welcoming the blankness of sleep. It lets him forget himself better than any wine could, better than any number of dancing girls and sometimes, maybe, it is lets him forget _him_ and his warmth and the confidence in his smile and his hands wrapped around his own and —

 

There's a soft knock at the servant door.

 

"Muntadhir?"

 

That voice could wake him from even death, Muntadhir thinks. He pulls himself out of bed, not bothering with a tunic, and pulls the door open.

 

It's Jamshid before him, still in uniform. He's worrying his bottom lip and glancing nervously around the room. Maybe Muntadhir's still dreaming. He rouses some semblance of control around him.

 

"What are you doing here?"

 

"I…"

 

Muntadhir raises a brow. The Jamshid before him is such a strong contrast to his last memory with Captain Jamshid e-Pramukh, and the reminder of his cold words awakes the recklessness in him again. "Finally decided to join me, captain?"

 

It's the wrong thing to say. Irritation replaces worry, and Jamshid pushes past Muntadhir into his room.

 

"I was going to ask you to explain yourself," he turns to face Muntadhir, moonlight profiling the anger in his face, "But since you're still playing a petty fool I demand—" his eyes are almost discernable in their darkness but Muntadhir feels it like electricity when they land on him, "I demand an apology."

 

"You want the Emir to apologise?" says Muntadhir, taken aback.

 

"Yes."

 

"You understand I could have you exiled for less, right? What would you have me apologise for?"

 

Jamshid folds his arms, careful uncertainty steeling into his features. Muntadhir knows it won't take much to have Jamshid close himself off from him now. "When you left last week, I— I thought you'd be coming back. To me."

 

His heart echoes Jamshid's, the same vicious hurt as earlier.

 

Jamshid continues, "I know there are rumours and I know there will always be rumours, but Muntadhir, I know you're smart. Surely, you understand that they are only mere rumours and anyone who treats courtroom whispers as holy fact isn't taken seriously, so why can't we—"

 

"What?" Muntadhir can't stand to hear the rest of this and remain intact, so he affects dismissive anger into his voice, "You want me to apologise for not fueling palace gossip by proclaiming loyalty to only you?" Muntadhir goes to fall onto his bed. It's always the same old argument, he reminds himself. He should be used to it by now, he doesn't care, he can't care. "If you think that's how the powerful stay powerful, then how you became captain is a mystery to me."

 

Jamshid looms over him. He's never been good at hiding his emotions on his face and the moonlight paints a swirl of denial and hurt and anger for Muntadhir to see. Why is he still here, after everything? "You are Emir. You should be able to control your subjects and tell them they are stupid and small-minded for trusting gossip. I know you, Muntadhir. I know you can spar words with the best of them. You do this for a million of your other vices. Why can't you do this for me?"

 

 _Because I am Muntadhir al Qahtani_. It's the answer neither of them want to hear right now, so he stays silent.

 

Jamshid sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. His voice is soft. "Why is it so easy for you to just stop what we're doing?" He speaks into the darkness of Muntadhir's room, even softer. "I wish it were easier for me."

 

Muntadhir slowly sits up so they're side by side. The moon shining behind them does nothing to reveal Jamshid's face, but the outline of his body is clear — shoulders gently slumped, head almost defeated in angle. Every arc calls Muntadhir to touch him or kiss him or hold his hand; anything to iron out the confusion and pain.

 

"It isn't easy for me, Jamshid," he says.

 

"Certainly didn't look all that difficult in the tavern earlier."

 

He reminds himself he deserves it. He pleads. "It _isn't_ easy."

 

 _I could lose him,_ he thinks, _I could lose him like this_. In a moment of raw insanity at the prospect, Muntadhir goes to his knees before Jamshid and grasps Jamshid's hands in his. "Please believe me."

 

 _Please_. But Jamshid is slowly shaking his head, not looking at him. Muntadhir tightens his grasp, moves into the fall of Jamshid's thighs.

 

"You don't understand how difficult it is. I have to choose every time — my family, my city, my people are all at stake. They need their Emir as they know him. Hell, they need me to be even better than that, better than what they expect. That's what I was born to do and I can't keep choosing. I hate that you make me choose."

 

"Muntadhir, I know that. But—" he tries to tug his hands back but Muntadhir refuses. "But I'm tired of it. I am tired of being hurt when you choose to take the easiest path every time instead of dealing with some complications."

 

"It's not _some_ complications. It builds, Jamshid, and that's how kings lose their kingdoms for less."

 

"I know," he sighs, "I know. But it hurts. And I don't know what to do."

 

The easiest answer would be for both of them to abandon this now rather than later and save them half a world of pain. But it seems impossible to even entertain the thought that Muntadhir could no longer be joyful and trusting and loving with Jamshid. He'd gladly cut his heart out for Jamshid; he thinks he'd do anything for him, but he knows that's a lie. Accepting what they have between them would put them both in peril and the danger would extend to their families as well. So Muntadhir does what he does best and it is as familiar as an old bruise he keeps black and blue.

 

"I am sorry." He's on his knees before his captain. He closes his eyes and presses a kiss to their joined hands, "I am sorry, Jamshid."

 

They're a wound that will never heal. He can see the pain of that truth when he opens his eyes and looks up at Jamshid. In his dark eyes, Muntadhir thinks he sees a shine of regret or possibility or denial, and upon the crease of his brow, Muntadhir wishes to bestow a kiss to smooth the plain sadness away. He settles for placing another kiss on their hands again.

 

"I am sorry," he whispers, head bowed at their hands like a man in worship.

 

He barely feels it when Jamshid's hand trails through his hair. Muntadhir feels so painfully alive, it feels like the noon sun is burning a reminder of his burden onto his skin. Jamshid's fingers trace his brow, then his cheekbone. His thumb rests below his jaw, barely holding Muntadhir's face. Muntadhir turns into Jamshid's hand and presses his mouth to his palm. He won't say it again. They both already know what it means. The world won't ever let them forget.

 

Jamshid is so solid and warm around him, Muntadhir almost forgets he's awake, but then he's being gently pushed back. He shuffles back a little on his knees, noticing how Jamshid's hands don't linger as he turns stands and turns away, and he watches Jamshid leave him.

 

Jamshid turns to shut the door and only then does he look at Muntadhir. Every look shared between them always seem final, and it never fails to crack open fault lines embedded deep inside him. The glow of the moon is unforgiving and he knows Jamshid can see how cold and alone he must look; he's still on his knees, hands and heart empty. Even now, apart and broken, Muntadhir can never be enough for him.

 

"Farewell, Emir."

 

"Goodnight, captain."

 

Jamshid closes the door.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this book deserves SO much more attention. come talk to me about it [here on tumblr](cafexuada.tumblr.com).


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